


Housebound - Ribbons

by Caty_314



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Smart Voldemort, Unreliable Narrator, canon compliant until fifth year halloween, do not copy to another site, eventual super!Harry, eventually explicit, except for that one little bit in the prologue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29843241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caty_314/pseuds/Caty_314
Summary: In the darkest hours of Halloween in Harry’s fifth year, the Dark Lord conducts a ritual that will change everything.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Voldemort, pre Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Housebound - Ribbons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cybrid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cybrid/gifts), [Earth_Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earth_Phoenix/gifts).



> Welcome to my _big hp fic! I’ve only been plotting it on and off for... four years or so? 😅_
> 
> _A big thank you to Earth who has been both kicking my scrawny backside to work on this, and beta reading it when I do. 🥰_
> 
> _And Cy? It’s not quite the smut I promised for Christmas (two Christmases ago... 😱), but I hope you accept this humble substitute of the fic I’ve been teasing you with for years. 😘_

**~ ~ Prologue ~ ~**

“ _Where did you get that sword?!_ ” Tom demanded, flabbergasted by the sight of the runty twelve year old attempting to wield the fabled _Sword of Gryffindor_ like a flaming torch while the Sorting Hat lay now discarded by his feet. The boy and the blade were across the chamber from him, and yet Tom felt like he had been stabbed through the heart with a blade of pure ice, so great was his fear to see that sword in Potter’s possession; fear for the sword and the potential soul within rather than for himself - the sword could not harm _him_.

Was the sword a Horcrux yet as he'd intended? If it was and Potter fought the basilisk with it, as he was obviously planning to… _Basilisk venom!_

“ _Back!_ ” he hissed to his servant, needing to get that dangerous poison away from what might be a container of his soul. “ _Let me speak to the boy._ ”

The great serpent, still spluttering in rage and pain, did as commanded and drew back towards the statue from which it had emerged, blindly snapping at the phoenix that continued to aggravate it as it went.

The scrawny second year shifted his gaze from the giant snake back to Tom, and the youthful Dark Lord couldn't help but smirk at the overwhelming terror shining in the child’s eyes, eyes whose colour prophesied the boy's imminent fate. 

“Where did you get that sword?” Tom demanded once again, his voice and expression perfectly level and controlled despite his bubbling anxiety for the blade. Potter’s only response was for his eyebrows to knit together over his absurdly large glasses as though he didn't quite understand the question. Tom wouldn't have been surprised if this was the case. He'd already proven himself the ignorant Gryffindor, able to be led around by the nose without ever being the wiser. 

Tom huffed slightly in irritation, then invisibly threw his magic forward, seeking confirmation of his own soul in the weapon before him. The result had him physically recoiling, almost unable, and certainly unwilling, to accept his discovery. The sword, brimming with magic as it was, was empty of life, empty of _his_ life. He sensed none of his own rich, dark, familiar magic within the blade. It wasn't his Horcrux, not yet. 

But the _boy…_

He could feel his own soothing power within the boy. It was knotted and restrained by the child’s own lighter magic, but now that he'd touched it, it sang back to him, struggling to reach out to him from its cage, making the boy scream in agony and fall to his knees as he clutched his head, on his knees where the boy belonged, except- _My Horcrux, my power, my soul._ He never would have noticed it if he hadn't been looking.

He retracted his magic, staring at the boy in surprise. Potter, the fool, didn’t stay down. Instead, in pure Gryffindor fashion, he pulled himself back to his feet, moving slightly as he did so to stand between Tom and the blood traitor he was slowly draining the life of. Tom’s surprise quickly faded to calculation, appraising his young opponent at this new knowledge.

 _Why this boy?_ he silently demanded of his future self, wondering why he'd chosen to hide a piece of himself within such a fragile vessel. His mind quickly flew back over the meagre scraps of knowledge the besotted chit had given him: the attack on the Potter’s, the child surviving, his future self’s power breaking… Obviously events were not as they seemed. It was not the killing curse cast upon him as an infant, but something infinitely darker. But if Potter was his Horcrux, how did he lose the boy to his enemy? 

Did his power break upon creating this Horcrux, which would account for his seeming ‘defeat’, or had some other factor been involved? Had he been attacked as or just after splitting his soul, an enemy managing to take advantage of the brief weakness the ritual would bring? Much as he hated to contemplate someone catching him in a moment of utter weakness, it was the only possibility that made sense. He was positive he wouldn't have miscalculated to the point of causing his own downfall, therefore, unpleasant as it was to contemplate, he must have been attacked and the boy stolen at that pivotal moment. How else would this boy, his Horcrux, have fallen into Dumbledore's hands, taught to be loyal to his greatest opponent, unless he had been snatched at that critical moment? The boy couldn't be harmed, had to be protected, needed to be returned to his master and put to the use he'd been created for…

But that meant Tom had to lose. 

He had set this trap to free himself, and to kill Dumbledore's chosen hero. To attempt otherwise at this point… Dumbledore must not have discovered what the boy was, or he would have destroyed him long ago.

Slytherin's Chamber had been a lone island of sanctuary in the heart of his enemy’s territory, but now it had been compromised. The enemy was already at the door - not the boy, but those the boy had mistakenly allowed in with him, Dumbledore's familiar and, by extension, Dumbledore himself. He couldn't keep the boy, his living Horcrux, trapped here (the Chamber was no longer a secret. It would only be a matter of time before his Horcrux was stolen from him, returned to his enemy’s hands), nor could he secrete him away from the castle (there was too much enemy territory to cross to escape with such a prize). 

No. The best way was to fool his young Horcrux into thinking he, Tom, had been defeated, then acquiring him later once he had the clear advantage. And if he was going to lose, best to do so while gaining something he’d always coveted.

Gryffindor’s sword was known to absorb magic that would make it stronger. Tom could use that.

His eyes flickered to the diary. He made sure to drag out his anxious glance long enough for the boy to see it. He even repeated it when the oblivious child didn’t understand what he was leading him to think. “Harry,” he purred smoothly, emphasising his charm so Harry would suspect manipulation, only Tom was much better at this game than he. “Why don’t you put that down and we can talk about this?” His eyes flitted to the diary again. It wasn’t close enough to the boy, but how could he draw him closer without him realising it was what Tom wanted?

Potter tightened his grip, raising the point slightly. He had such bad form. He would never make a swordsman. “I’ll drop the sword if you drop my wand,” Potter replied, his voice shaking, but his bravery (foolishness) shining through. He spread his feet, widening his stance, but more importantly, taking him one step closer to the diary. “And release Ginny. And send away the basilisk.”

Tom countered Potter’s step with his own, moving as if in response, but really trying to force his movement. “I can’t do that,” he answered. He could, and he was. He didn’t like giving up his chance at life, but he would gain so much more by allowing Potter to win, and that unfortunately meant he couldn’t sate his bloodlust by killing the girl, he had to allow Potter to save her. “How about we come to an _arrangement_ ,” he suggested, taking another step. “All I want is to be free, to live again as has been denied me these past fifty years.”

“You’re _killing Ginny_.” Really. The boy should learn better than to state the obvious. 

“I’ll let her go,” Tom tempted softly, “if you make a deal with me.”

The sword dipped. Foolish boy. “What kind of deal?” he asked.

Tom scoffed to himself. The boy had no guile. Before even hearing Tom’s offer his eyes glinted with rejection. Why had his future self chosen him? What potential had he seen, especially as an infant? Could it still be drawn out of the boy, or had Dumbledore’s claws sunk too deep? 

He offered the boy a tight grin. “They say the pen is mightier than the sword,” he began, intending to try to convince the boy to write in the diary again, something Tom knew he would never do, but then Potter struck. Tom had expected more banter, or for Potter to give some kind of heroic declaration the moment before he acted, like any good Gryffindor. Instead, he moved when Tom didn’t expect it. If this hadn’t been what he’d wanted, he wouldn’t have had time to stop it. It was a bold move, but one that was far more cunning than he’d have expected from the house of the brave and reckless. Maybe the child did have potential.

The tip of the sword sank through the leather, and Tom felt the pull on his magic. Horcruxes were powerful artifacts, with so many protections inherent within them, magic the sword began to absorb greedily, along with the fragment of Tom’s soul that maintained those protections. 

Tom released the bond with the girl, allowing what magic she had remaining to snap back to her, and he focused his energy on his diary and the sword draining it. He had intended to act the part, but no acting was required. It _hurt_ , having his magic, his being, siphoned from the container that had held him so long and forced into a new form - it _hurt_. It was a price he was willing to pay. He quickly lost his form, lost any connection to the outside world, as his soul slowly took up residence within the blade, He buried himself deep, hiding in the dark. He knew Dumbledore would look. He knew Dumbledore would study the diary and scrutinise the sword. He would stay hidden, and trust in the Headmaster’s blindness in favour of Gryffindor and his relics. After all, how could a Slytherin taint Gryffindor’s sword, the most famous of his heirlooms?

Tom pulled himself into the darkness, wrapping himself up so tightly that he would not be found. The sword was now his Horcrux. He had now achieved what his future self had yet to. Now he just had to hope the Voldemort that followed him had found the other necessary artifacts, the cup, the diadem, and the locket. If he possessed all four relics, neither Dumbledore, nor anyone else, would be able to end his reign.

**~ ~ Chapter 1 ~ ~**

**3 years later**

Harry's hand was already clutching at his scar when he woke, and his throat felt raw as another scream was torn from it. He rolled to one side, pressing both hand and face into his pillow in an attempt to muffle the agony, but all the pillow muffled was the high, pained whimper which escaped him.

“Harry. _Harry_.”

He could still feel Voldemort’s elation, the absolute confidence in his victory. It had been building for days, this pressure in his scar, this feeling of eager anticipation that stemmed from the Dark Lord, a feeling that had culminated into blinding pain with the success of a nameless ritual in the night.

 _Blood._ There had been so much blood… but it was Voldemort's flesh that had been torn open, Voldemort's laughter when the runes accepted and absorbed that blood, when they glowed with a sick, red light, Voldemort's voice commanding the powers he’d invoked to submit to him. Harry almost felt the urge to laugh as well, deep and long, in a painful echo of Voldemort’s elation.

“ _Harry!_ ”

He tried to cling to the details, tried to remember everything he could about what Voldemort celebrated as his victory, but already the details were slipping. The words that had been spoken so clearly now lost to a muted haze, and the runes so lovingly carved were but a blur of red. The only aspect Harry could remember was that the ritual somehow centred on Hogwarts, or more specifically, on the houses. The four cardinal points of the circle somehow represented the four houses, though their place holders were absent even if they weren’t exactly missing. Harry didn’t understand. He knew it was important, he could feel it along with the Dark triumph that the cause of his victory were the four empty circles and the blood that, for some reason, shouldn’t have taken.

“ _Harry!_ ”

He dragged one eye open, the other still covered by his palm as he clutched at his forehead. In front of him, taking up almost his entire vision, was a blurry mass of bloodless skin and orange hair.

“He's done something,” Harry told the mass wildly. “He's… oh, God, Ron. _What's he done?!_ ”

“Harry, what is it? What’s the matter?” Ron was asking frantically. Harry could hear the other boys in the dorm talking to him as well, but none of them were as intimately close as Ron was. 

Ron’s hands were gripping Harry’s arms just below the shoulder, holding him securely as if to prevent Harry from hurting himself. This sensation, the weight of his best friend holding him in place helped Harry anchor himself, pulling out of his head, out of the pain, and back into the dorm room. 

As if in response to his escape, his scar gave another throb of victory. While he didn’t scream this time, Harry’s fingertips dug deeper and he groaned his agony. The slick feeling beneath his palm warned him that he was bleeding. He didn’t know if he’d broken his own skin with his nails or if his scar had torn itself open. Maybe it was both. Distantly, Harry heard Seamus swearing. 

“Is it… is it _him?_ ” Ron asked, his voice almost a whisper on the last word as though he feared the Dark Lord would hear him and _know._

“No, it’s that other Dark Lord that gives me headaches when he’s in a good mood,” Harry snarled, unable to rein his tongue in. The sweets he’d eaten at the Halloween feast the night before were roiling threatening within him. He swallowed heavily, hoping they wouldn’t make a reappearance.

“Should we take him to the hospital wing?” someone asked.

“I’m going to get help,” another voice replied.

It wasn’t until Harry shook his head to contradict those voices that he realised what a bad idea it was to do so. The world spun and flipped and he was sure it was only because Ron was still holding him down that he didn’t fall out of bed or float up to the ceiling. “Dumbledore,” Harry bit out through waves of pain and dizziness. “I have to talk to Dumbledore. I need to warn him.”

“Harry, mate. It was just a…” Ron began uncertainty, but he didn’t quite finish his statement that it was only a dream. Perhaps it was because Harry had chosen that moment to pull his hand away from his scar and look down at his palm. Even in the dim light of the half moon, it was drenched in blood. 

Ron swore at the sight of him, his fingers tightening, digging painfully into Harry’s pyjama clad arms. Harry appreciated the pain as it helped to further ground him away from the agony of Voldemort’s joy. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Harry looked back up. He felt cold. A knot of fear was tightening around his heart. Voldemort had won. Whatever he had done, Voldemort had beaten them. “I don’t know,” he whispered, terror leaking through his voice.

The white blur that was Ron’s skin seemed to go even more pale. His voice was high pitched and cracking when he spoke again. “Neville’s gone for help. He’ll be back. It’ll be fine.”

Harry groaned, closing his eyes again and pressing his hand to his forehead. Yes, it was definitely his scar that was split open. Harry breathed through his teeth, trying to keep his nausea under control. The pain was ebbing, and the vile elation was fading away. 

He focused on the sound of voices around him, Ron’s, Dean’s, and Seamus, but didn’t bother listening to their words. He could feel the furnace-like heat radiating from Ron, burning against the deep chill that seemed to emanate from Harry’s chest. The bed beneath him, the sheets around him, the dip in the mattress where Ron knelt beside him, and the weight of his hands. Harry grounded himself, forcing back the connection that had assaulted him in the darkest hours of the night.

A light flashed on, flooding the room and causing Harry to flinch back, and Professor McGonagall hurried into the room in a tartan dressing gown, her fluffy slippers slapping loudly against the ground as she hurried in. Harry didn’t think he’d ever been more glad to see her. “Potter. Where are you hur-” Like Ron, her question cut off as soon as Harry removed his hand. He scrambled to a sitting position, and shoved his glasses onto his bloodied and sticky nose so he could see her as he spoke to her. McGonagall’s eyes widened, and her face lost colour. “Potter. What-?” She looked speechless.

“I need to talk to Dumbledore,” Harry told her quickly. “I need to tell him… He’s done something. I need to tell Dumbledore!”

McGonagall’s eyes flickered to his scar and back, indicating she understood who ‘ _he_ ’ was. “And what has _he_ done precisely?” 

Harry hesitated, trying to put his thoughts in order, to put words to his hazy recollections. “He… He was doing this ritual, and it shouldn't have worked, but it did, and now he’s happy about it.” Harry took a shaky breath. “He thinks he’s won.”

The silence in the room was so profound it seemed to ring in the air around them. The whole night seemed to freeze in respect, no sound carrying from the other dorms, nor the wind from outside.

“Very well,” McGonagall said sharply, cutting through the silence like a blade. She turned to the other boys in the dorm. “You four, back to bed. You have class in the morning. Potter, grab your cloak and come with me.”

Harry scrambled out of bed, pausing briefly when the world spun as he stood. The school corridors were cold and dark, but Harry barely noticed. It seemed like no time at all between walking out the door of the common room and arriving at the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office, and naturally, that was when doubts began to assail him.

Dumbledore wouldn’t even look at him the last time Harry saw him. Would Dumbledore even be interested in listening to Harry talk about a _bad dream_ he’d had? _Was_ it just a bad dream? Did Harry imagine the whole thing and it just happened to coincide with Voldemort’s temper? Just a small effort of concentration and Harry could feel the Dark Lord’s giddy happiness, an emotion he would have thought more befitting a school girl than an evil, murderous wizard. His scar throbbed ominously.

At the top of the staircase, McGonagall rapped sharply on the door. The room beyond was silent, unsurprising given the late, or maybe Harry should now consider it early, hour, but his Head of House didn’t knock again. 

“Come in,” the Headmaster’s voice invited after a few minutes. “Minerva,” Dumbledore greeted as they entered, then he noticed Harry, “and… _ah_.” His gazed skipped away the instant after recognising his guests, landing on some papers on his desk which he quickly shuffled and set aside. His expression was grave. He’d obviously noticed the blood drying on Harry’s forehead. When he looked up again, his gaze was fixed on McGonagall. 

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter has, well he had a dream that-”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Harry interrupted. “I know it was… that I was sleeping, but it wasn’t a dream.”

McGonagall pursed her lips as though she was cross at being cut off, but - her gaze flickered to his weeping scar once more - her expression quickly changed to one of restrained concern. “How about you tell the Headmaster about it.” 

Harry turned back to Dumbledore, but when he saw the man was staring fixedly at his hands clasped together on his desk, Harry’s own gaze fell to the carpet. “It was… He was doing this ritual. There was a circle and all these marks carved into the floor, and he said some stuff, and then he cut his wrist-” McGonagall jerked beside him, but Harry didn’t look at her. “-and… and he was bleeding into the middle of the circle, and then the blood all spread out into the lines and started glowing, and… there were these four things that had something to do with Hogwarts, with the houses, but they weren’t there, but that didn’t matter for some reason? And then the ritual… worked? And he was happy. He… he thinks that it means he’s won now. That we can’t stop him.”

Harry nervously lifted his eyes without lifting his chin. McGonagall looked aghast, and Dumbledore was ashen. He stood up from behind his desk, walking to one side and resting his hand on a stone which glowed with a kaleidoscope of colours and looked a bit like a giant bird's egg. “The four pieces missing, what stood in their place?”

Harry tilted his head to one side, trying to remember the fading details. “Well, nothing did. There were these four little circles around the big circle but they were empty… it was like Voldemort filled those places himself, sort of.”

Dumbledore nodded, looking older than Harry had ever seen him. “I could be wrong, but if he used the ritual I suspect he did, it shouldn’t have worked, certainly not with his own blood.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t supposed to work, but it did,” Harry confirmed. “And then he was… happy.”

Happy was an understatement. Harry rubbed his scar, which made the gaping wound sting, but it felt more tacky than earlier as most of the blood had congealed. He could still feel the echo of pain and joy when he thought about it. He swallowed back his nausea.

“Thank you for telling me this, Harry,” Dumbledore said. Harry felt a spark of irritation that the older man still wouldn’t look at him. “I will endeavour to find out exactly what Voldemort has done. Would you like a cup of tea to settle your nerves before you head back to bed?”

Harry’s eyes fell back to the floor, and his hands curled into fists. How could he so cordially offer a cup of tea when he won’t even look at him? “No thank you, sir,” Harry answered stiffly.

“Then I will bid you both a good night. Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I will trust you to see young Harry back to his dorm.”

Of course he met _her_ eye, Harry thought bitterly, but he followed his Head of House out without another word or a backwards glance.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Harry had a free period before Divination. Hermione was at Arithmancy, and Ron had gone back to Gryffindor tower to get all his books and homework he’d need for the day. Harry, who hadn’t gone back to sleep and so had plenty of time to pack his bag for the day, just stayed in the Great Hall after breakfast. His Divination homework was spread out on the table around him, but he was lost in thought, wondering again just what Voldemort had done.

His scar didn’t hurt anymore, and he couldn’t feel any emotions but his own, but he couldn’t focus on anything else. Certainly not something as boring as filling out another month’s worth of dreams in his dream journal. He knew for certain he wouldn’t be writing a word about the dream he’d had last night. He could only imagine what Trelawney would say about it.

Harry groaned, wanting to bash his head into the table, but instead his attention was pulled to a girl who slid into the seat opposite him. He didn’t recognise her, but she looked old enough to be in her sixth or seventh year, and she wore Ravenclaw colours even though her robes seemed a bit outdated. Did she buy her uniform second hand like the Weasleys had to?

“Err… Hi,” Harry greeted her awkwardly.

She was staring at him with open curiosity, not seeming to realise how uncomfortable it was making him. “You’re the Hogwarts Champion.” 

Harry started slightly, then… _Cedric. The graveyard. Voldemort._

Harry scowled, his fingers tightening around his quill. He didn’t need to be reminded of the disaster his fourth year had been. He was doing better, but he still had nightmares about that night. 

“Yeah,” he said bitterly, looking back down at his homework. He should have gone back to the common room. “Cedric was the real champion though,” he added. He, after all, had only been entered into the competition to help Voldemort return. If anything, He was Voldemort’s champion. That thought didn’t sit well with him.

“It’s a bit unusual, becoming Champion like that,” the girl continued lightly, sounding like she wasn’t listening to him at all. She was starting to remind him of Luna. He could just picture the two of them sitting side by side reading their magazines upside down. An older sister perhaps? They even had the same hair.

“Yeah, well, _Unusual_ is my middle name. If it’s unlikely or impossible, it’ll happen to me.”

The girl hummed in response. “That’s a strange name to have.”

Harry snorted in genuine, if slightly bitter, amusement. Everyone knew his name of course. How could they not. All the same, he felt he should be polite. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter,” he introduced himself. 

“Marle,” the Ravenclaw replied, her eyes not once going to his scar. “I think I’ll be watching you more closely from now, Harry Potter.”

With that puzzling statement, Marle stood, nodded in farewell, and almost seemed to float out of the hall. Harry frowned, feeling utterly confused, just as he had when he had first met Luna. They both had the same dreamy demeanor as though they saw the world differently from everyone else. Harry shook his head and turned back to his unfinished homework.

About twenty minutes later, Ron took the now vacant space across from him, pulling out his own incomplete journal. “It was a nightmare getting back here,” he said in greeting. “It was like all the stairs had gone to sleep. I had to walk the _long_ way.”

Harry just hummed, not looking up. He knew what was really on Ron’s mind.

“Hey, mate-” And there it was. “Are you okay? After, you know, last night?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, Dumbledore’s looking into it, but… it’s probably nothing. Just a bad dream or something.”

Ron scoffed. “Sure. A ‘bad dream’ wouldn’t make your scar-” Ron waved his hand as though that explained everything. “- _bleed_ ,” he whispered the word, “like that.”

Harry looked up at him tiredly. “Ron, just… not here, alright?” He was actually thinking, ‘ _Not at all_ ,’ but he couldn’t just say that.

“Sure. O’course.” Ron nodded, looking relieved at having an excuse to change the subject. “So, what rubbish should we tell Trelawney this time?”

The two spent the rest of their free period making up the most outlandish drivel they could to cheer each other up. They had to keep flicking back to their last month of dreams to make sure they hadn’t repeated anything, but when he got to _October 31_ , Harry simply wrote, _I didn’t dream that night._

Halloween. Why did something always happen on Halloween? The day was cursed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The week quickly turned into the weekend, and it seemed like everyone but Harry had already forgotten about Voldemort. Harry’s scar had completely closed up again, not even a scab to show, and Harry had learned to ignore the way it randomly _tingled_ , as if Voldemort was letting himself bask in his victory from time to time.

Naturally, Hermione had been concerned when Harry told her everything the next day, but to Harry’s frustration, she seemed to think that they didn’t need to worry about it since Dumbledore knew. Harry wasn’t as convinced.

Ron, though he was concerned, having _seen_ how bad Harry was that night, was quickly distracted by his first upcoming Quidditch match. The Slytherins hadn’t let up on their heckling, and Ron’s skin wasn’t quite as thick as the other members of their team. By Saturday morning, Ron was already looking distinctly pale and sweaty despite not being out on the pitch yet. 

“You alright, mate?” Harry asked in concern. 

Ron squeaked something that Harry assumed was supposed to be an answer, but closed his mouth again quickly, covering it with his hand, looking for the life of him like he was trying not to heave. 

“You’ll be fine,” Harry reassured him. “You did brilliant at practice the other day. Like that goal you saved by kicking the Quaffle. That’s the sort of skill you see in professional games and you just-” Harry waved his arms in emphatic demonstration. “-did it.”

Rather than looking buoyed by Harry words, Ron groaned and hid back under his blankets. “It was an accident,” came his muffled response.

“Err, what?” Harry asked.

Ron peeked out again. “It was an accident. I fell off the broom when you were all watching Angelina. I was trying to get back up and kicked the ball by accident.”

Harry plastered a cheery grin on, hoping it didn’t look as false as it felt. “Well, a few more accidents like that and we’ll have the game in the bag,” he chirped.

“I thought I was going to die.” Ron sat up suddenly. “What if I _do_ die? We’ll lose the game! I’ll never live it down!”

Harry sat on the edge of Ron’s bed and patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Err, if you die, I think living it down will be the least of your problems.”

Ron just groaned once more and burrowed back into his bed.

“Come on, mate,” Harry encouraged. “Come down and have some breakfast. You’ll feel better after that.”

It took some more encouragement and prodding, but soon they were walking into the Great Hall. Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly as he met the delicious smells of eggs and sausages. Ron was looking greener than ever. 

Cheers rose from the Gryffindor table at the arrival of each member of the Quidditch team. Harry grinned, but Ron seemed to shrink in on himself. Harry quickly steered him over to where Hermione had already saved them seats. “I saved this for you,” she said, pushing a heaped plate of all of Ron’s favourites in front of him. 

Ron gave her a queasy grin in thanks and grabbed a piece of dry toast from the pile. He nibbled on one corner, before proceeding to slowly shred the slice into smaller and smaller pieces. Harry and Hermione looked on in concern.

“You were the best out of everyone at the tryouts, remember?” Hermione tried, but Ron only scowled.

“The best out of a bad lot still doesn’t mean I’m any _good_ ,” he argued sullenly.

The two continued to encourage the reluctant goalie, but nothing seemed to crack Ron’s spiral of self flagellation. The table around them roared with cheers once more, and Harry looked up to see Fred and George striding into the Hall. Their heads were held high and their hands even higher, as they waved to their crowd like conquering heroes. 

Somehow the cheers didn’t seem as loud as they had when Harry and Ron had arrived, despite Harry being in the thick of it this time, but Harry put this down to not being the object of the cheering this time. But when Harry caught Hermione’s eye on the other side of Ron, she shook her head at him and mouthed, ‘ _Slytherin_.’ Harry frowned. He was used to the pre-game tricks the other house pulled, but he couldn’t help wondering what they were up to. Again Hermione helped, tapping her chest. A glance around the room let Harry realise what she was referring to. All the Slytherins were wearing a silver crown badge. Harry had a feeling that he didn’t want to know what that was about, but was equally certain that he would find out at the worst moment possible.

Luckily, the moment was interrupted when Luna came to their table to share her own brand of encouragement. Seeing her reminded Harry of the other Ravenclaw he’d met a few days before, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Luna’s… rather fetching hat, to look to see if she was there.

“Umm… you have a lion on your head,” Ron pointed out. And she did. It looked like a genuine, life sized lion head balancing like an unfashionable hat.

“Yes. Do you like it?” Luna asked serenely. She tapped it lightly with her wand and it opened its mouth and gave an ear splitting roar. Harry even thought he felt some spittle landing on it from him. The Great Hall rang slightly in confused silence once the jaws snapped shut. “I wanted it to be chewing a snake to represent Gryffindor’s victory over Slytherin, but there wasn’t enough time. Anyway. Good luck, Ronald.”

“Wait, Luna!” Harry spoke up as the younger girl began to turn away. She looked back at him, her eyes wide and curious - in a vacantly detached kind of way. “I, err… I think I met your sister the other day. I mean… do you have a sister?”

Luna tipped her head slightly. “No,” she answered simply, not sounding at all offended by Harry’s mistake. “But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a sister. Or a brother. I’ve been enjoying having friends, so maybe I’d like having a sister too.”

“Err, right,” Harry said. He shifted uncomfortably. “So, err, thanks for the lion? It’s very… loud.”

Luna gave him a small smile. “You’re a good person, Harry Potter. I will talk to you later.” And with that she floated back to the Ravenclaw table, her ‘hat’ towering over her housemates as she went.

“Well, that was…” Hermione tried, but as usual, she couldn’t find the appropriate description to put to an encounter with Luna, so instead she changed the topic. “Ron, you’ve barely eaten. How will you have the energy to play?”

Ron looked down at his meal. The toast he had been shredding was little more than crumbs, and most of them missed his plate. He’d looked less green while Luna had distracted him, but now that Hermione had reminded him, Harry could see as the blood drained away from his freckly face. Harry shot her a quick glare. She grimaced to herself, seeming to recognise her mistake.

“I shouldn’ta done this. What was I thinking? This was a mistake,” he began muttering to himself, but before he could work himself up into another frenzy, Angelina’s voice cut in. 

“Well, you should have thought of that before tryouts,” she said. Katie and Alicia stood at her sides. “When you’re ready, I want you both at the pitch. We need to change, warm up, and check conditions. Don’t be late.”

“We’ll be there soon,” Harry assured her. “After we get Ron to eat something.” Ron shrank into his chair.

“Good.” Angelina nodded and marched out of the Hall. The other two chasers were close on her heels, but both sent Harry and Ron a friendly wave over their shoulders. Only Harry noticed and returned it.

After a few more minutes, when it became clear that Ron wouldn’t be eating anything more, Harry decided it would be best to get Ron down to the pitch sooner rather than later. Perhaps being there would help calm him and get him into the right frame of mind.

Unfortunately, they met Malfoy as they were headed out the doors. Harry knew he needed to get Ron away fast before Malfoy could say anything to fuel Ron’s breakdown, but they were caught in the bottle neck of exiting students and there was no escape.

“Good luck out there today, Weasel,” called Malfoy’s snide voice. “We’ll be rooting for you. All of Slytherin will be cheering you on.” He tapped the silver on his chest as if to emphasise his statement. This time Harry was close enough to read the words on the crown: _Weasley is our King._

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snarled, wishing he had a lion hat of his own to bite Malfoy, or at least to drown him out with its roar. He got behind Ron, extending his arms and trying to _push_ him out, but unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough to escape the Slytherins’ laughter. Harry scowled. This game was bound to be a disaster.

~~~~~~~~~~

Harry’s prediction was spot on. He wished he’d added it to his dream journal. Trelawney would have lapped up the inherent tragedy of it all, and he might have even gotten extra points when it came true.

Gryffindor had won - _barely_ \- but the cost had been great. He, George, and Fred - _banned_. Harry could barely wrap his head around it. It wasn’t just the rug Umbridge had pulled out from under him, but the floor as well. With no broomstick to keep him from falling as she had confiscated it. _Banned._

Harry didn’t go to lunch. None of the team did. They were all still reeling from the news, except Ron who hadn’t been seen since the game ended. And Fred was fuming almost worse than the rest of them, having been punished along with Harry and George when his team hadn’t even given him the courtesy of allowing him to commit the crime he was being punished for. 

Harry didn’t want to go down, he just needed a few moments alone to just _deal_ , but he knew he’d have to go to the down to the common room soon enough to deal with the aftermath with the rest of his team. Angelina was going to kill him.

A soft knock echoed from the door. Harry sighed. He supposed his time was up. “Come in, Hermione,” he called out, distantly surprised that she hadn’t come in already.

“Err, Harry?” That wasn’t Hermione’s voice.

Turning quickly, Harry spotted Colin Creevy shifting awkwardly from foot to foot by the door. He looked very uncomfortable to be interrupting Harry’s brooding. “Hi, yes, sorry Colin,” Harry rambled quickly. “What is it?”

“I was asked to…” He held out his hand. It was shaking slightly, making the note he held rustle faintly.

Harry sighed. It was probably about more detentions with Umbridge. He crossed the room and took it reluctantly. “Thank you, Colin,” he said, trying to sound warm. He hoped Colin didn’t cop too much flak from Umbridge, being the messenger. 

Colin nodded and fled as quickly as he could. Harry didn’t blame him. He glanced down at the envelope, expecting to see Umbridge’s nauseatingly neat writing, but instead his name was written in loopy golden ink. He tore the parchment open.

> _Dear Mister Potter,_
> 
> _Kindly join me for a spot of tea immediately after lunch._
> 
> _Kind regards,_  
>  _Albus Dumbledore_
> 
> _P.S. I quite enjoy Pecan Pastries._

Harry blinked at the note.

On the one hand, his heart leapt that Dumbledore had reached out to him at last. On the other, why had he called him ‘ _Mister Potter_ ’ instead of the more familiar ‘ _Harry_ ’ he had always used before?

Harry didn’t resist the urge to close his fist around the page, scrunching it in the middle and leaving the edges splayed out like a giant sweet. He had half a mind to ignore the summons, but… The memory of, of _that night_ flashed through his mind again, and Harry let out a heavy sigh. He needed to know. He needed to know that everything was okay, that Dumbledore had fixed it.

But what if it wasn’t even about that? What if Dumbledore had heard about Quidditch and Umbridge and wanted to tell Harry how disappointed he was with him? What if he couldn’t overturn Umbridge’s ban? From the decree Umbridge had read in McGonagall’s office, Harry doubted there was anything the Headmaster could do, but that wouldn’t stop him from asking.

Decision made, he shoved the parchment deep into his pocket and made for the door. He’d skipped lunch, it was long over by now, so he figured it was best for him to make his way straight to Dumbledore’s office. He found himself wondering how Dumbledore would ignore him this time since he’d invited Harry himself.

Easily, it seemed. When he arrived the Headmaster was staring out the window again, stroking Fawkes who sat on his perch which had been moved nearby.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” Harry asked resentfully. His heart was dropping and his ire rising.

“Yes, Mister Potter. I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news to discuss. Please take a seat.”

Harry glowered at the old man’s back. He would have liked to just turn around and walk back out, but… He ground his teeth in frustration, remembering the joyous agony from only a few nights ago. Moving stiffly, he slid into his seat. 

Almost immediately, the tea set waiting on the desk in front of him hopped into action. The pot and jug of milk fought to fill up Harry’s cup more than the other, and the sugar spooned itself in as quickly as possible. Once his cup was full, the spoon stirred itself before cluttering to the edge of his saucer. The tea looked overly milky and cold. Harry didn’t touch it.

“What do you know of the ancient gods of the world? Those of Greece, Rome, Egypt. Those legendary pantheons of the divine.”

“Err…” Harry was confused by the left field topic. What did this have to do with anything? “There was one who threw lightning?” he answered. He could remember when Aunt Petunia put on a cartoon of pretty music that told lots of different stories. Dudley wasn’t interested, but Harry got to see snippets of it as he walked by the lounge room doing his chores. There were stories of dinosaurs, flowers, a mouse with a broom, and one with half animal people and gods that blew wind and made night with their cloaks. Aunt Petunia had always spoken about culture and classical symphonies when she put it on, but after the first time she actually watched it herself, it disappeared and was never seen in the house again. Harry knew why now, of course.

Dumbledore nodded, still facing away. “Although those legends have turned to myth, with little more than tales teaching simple morals surviving, that does not negate the place they have in history, though it’s far from the modern topics covered by Professor Binns.”

 _Modern topics?_ Harry thought, raising an eyebrow.

Dumbledore chuckled as if he knew, or could guess, what Harry was thinking. “Magic was different in the first ages of the world. There were still rules which governed it, much as you learn about in classes, but the restrictions were far less. It is referred to today as _Primordial Magic_ , the first magic of the world. This is the power Voldemort seeks to unlock.”

Without warning, Dumbledore crossed the room taking his place at his desk across from Harry. With a flourish, he produced a piece of parchment which he slid across the desktop for Harry to see. The tea set skittered out of the way, sloshing tea from Harry’s cup as it went. 

The image was familiar, but with far more detail than Harry could recall. There were four small circles, each with an insignia etched within it, and a larger circle lay beneath them, touching the sides of each smaller circle as if to cut them in half. “This is the ritual,” Harry murmured, his fingertip tracing over the runes which crisscrossed the large inner circle. “So… he’s done it. He’s won,” Harry whispered, the helpless feeling of defeat creeping like ice through his veins. “Is… He’s like a god now?” The idea was terrifying.

“Well, not _quite_.” Harry’s eyes shot up. Dumbledore’s gaze was still locked on the parchment, but Harry could see what could only be described as a small smirk twisting the corner of the Professor’s lips. “While Voldemort has indeed started the process which could result in his victory, once again I believe he has forgotten to reckon on _you_.”

“Me? But what can I do against…” Harry waves his hand at the parchment, hoping the gesture would encapsulate just how formidable and impossible to beat Voldemort would now be.

“Voldemort has only unleashed the power. He has not gained it.” 

Harry pursed his lips sceptically.

An aged finger lightly tapped the four marks around the ritual circle. “The potential has been first given to four others, a representative of each of the houses of Hogwarts, considering it was the founders themselves who successfully created this ritual. It is these individuals who must bestow that power on the ritual’s intended recipient, and it must be done within a year and a day or the power will be dispersed and those involved will not be able to invoke it again.”

“So…” Harry began slowly, his mind racing to understand everything he was being told. “You think we should find them first. Hide them away so they can be safe until after next Halloween.”

“I think we should find them, yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “But I think _you_ should gather those powers first, then they will be in no danger to Voldemort.”

“What?!” Harry asked in shock. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be… some sort of _superwizard_. I just… I only want to be _me_.” People already stared at him enough. _Too much_ , even. 

“There are very few recorded instances of this ritual being invoked, and even fewer of them succeeding,” Dumbledore explained gravely. “However, of those that have, the power has only remained upon the chosen recipient until their purpose has been achieved.”

“So, if my purpose is to stop Voldemort…”

“Then once he is no longer a danger, you will return to your former capabilities,” Dumbledore confirmed. “You must remember, your abilities do not determine _who you are._ Not to mention, whilst the four hold these powers, their lives will be at risk. Voldemort will seek them out and, as you know, no protection is infallible. But if we gather those powers from them, Voldemort will hold no interest in them.”

“But I will,” Harry said flatly. “I will regardless. It won’t put me anymore at risk than I already am.” It was the truth after all, but the only thing this knowledge made him feel was… tired.

“It is a heavy burden you bear, and yet you do so admirably.”

“But, if he made the ritual to get the power himself, what can I do?”

“Remember, you have been gifted with Voldemort’s magic. A connection exists between you that even I do not fully understand. I believe that you can gather the necessary elements before him, taking his place in the ritual, and receiving this power before he can wield it himself.”

Harry looked up. Dumbledore was gazing off into the distance, as though looking at some future only he could perceive. 

“How do we find them then? These people from each house. Will they be here at Hogwarts?” Harry’s mind immediately flew to the other students and who might have received this secret power they were looking for.

Dumbledore smiled slightly and looked back down, reaching out to make his own cup of overly sweet tea. His cup bounced excitedly at the attention it was receiving. Harry refused to be envious of a tea cup. “My understanding is that anyone who has been sorted at any point in their lives could be chosen by magic as their house representative. They will be carrying a mark, one that they pass over when they grant their favour. I already have some feelers out searching for those we need to find, but I needed to inform you, my boy, because we will have to act immediately when I receive word. We cannot let Voldemort reach any one of them first, for their sake as well as everyone else’s.”

Harry nodded. He understood, he did. He just wished his life didn’t suck so much.

Dumbledore smiled genially behind his cup. “Now, can I offer you another cup before you go, Mister Potter?”

Ah. Back to aloof and dismissive. Harry looked at his untouched cup instead of his Headmaster. It was shivering, but Harry didn’t know if it was because the tea was cold or because it was really very eager to be drunk. “No thank you, Professor,” Harry answered with a politeness he didn’t feel.

“Of course. And be ready to act the moment you hear the word,” Dumbledore reminded him as he stood.

Harry would be. Regardless what he thought or how he felt, he would be ready.


End file.
